Storm in a Teacup
by AnnaVictrix
Summary: He wasn't entirely sure why he was here, propped in the doorway of her apartment when he should be in the hospital. Then again, he'd always been a glutton for punishment, especially when it came to them.
1. High tide

Title: Storm in a Teacup  
>Summary: He wasn't entirely sure why he was propped in the doorway of her apartment when he should be in the hospital. Then again, he'd always been a glutton for punishment, especially when it came to them.<br>Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, apart from my Mentalist DVDs, without which these past 7 TV-less months would have been so much harder to bear!

A/N: This is my very first, fully-fledged fiction, published at long last after an arduous battle with this first chapter. Fingers-crossed that my internet will play and let me update in the near future, because I've got plenty in store! And so, without further ado, please read, enjoy and (if you're feeling super generous) review!

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><p><span>Chapter 1: High tide<span>

Patrick Jane wasn't entirely sure of how he had gotten to this point.

Exhausted, half-standing in the doorway of Teresa Lisbon's apartment with the most beautiful woman he knew shaking with rage only three feet from him. Yet here he was, one ugly brown shoe jammed against the doorframe while he struggled to focus on her fiery gaze, his shoulder screaming in protest, lungs burning from the cold air rattling inside his chest. He offered her a faint smile by means of explanation, one that never reached his eyes, cursing silently as the chill air send a visible shiver through his limbs.

"How long have you been out here Jane?" Her voice was quiet, tinged with disappointment but not the pity that he dreaded would slip into her tone; he'd had too much of it for one day and was grateful when her eyebrow quirked, prompting him to answer.

"Long enough. Can I come in?" His desperation won out and while Patrick Jane wasn't one to beg, unless she planned to kick his legs from under him, he wasn't going anywhere. Knowing Lisbon of all people couldn't refuse him, he watched as her eyes flickered for an instant, a soft sigh through barely parted lips an indication that, once again, her compassion had won the battle.

"You shouldn't be here," she said evenly, edging almost imperceptibly to grant him entry.

Any sarcastic comeback died on his lips as his unsteady steps careered him into the doorframe, the hot pain searing through his shoulder and throat causing his head to swim. Biting down hard on his tongue, he fought to maintain his composure as her raised eyebrow and down-turned frown followed him into the living room where he now stood, swaying, focusing on the iron tang in his mouth rather than his blurring vision. Lisbon didn't speak, her arms folded in a death grip around her small frame, watching him waver ever so slightly in the middle of the room. The ridiculous scene stretched on as the seconds ticked steadily by, her concern betraying the stillness set in her limbs as she began to slowly suck on her bottom lip. Jane brought his gaze to meet the darkness of hers steadily, swallowing hard, before cocking a head of blonde curls towards the kitchen, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"Are we just gonna stand here all night Lisbon? A good hostess would have offered me a cup of tea by now. Shall we?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt something in the air shift, and he knew all too well that she would wipe the too-wide grin off of his face. Her whole body seemed to visibly flinch at his words, and he would have clasped a hand to his mouthif only his muscles wouldn't rip apart at the movement. He forced his eyes to focus, to really focus on the way her deft fingers clenched at her sides and on the forcibly steady rise and fall of her chest. Eyes roaming her small frame, it was only then that Jane noticed her bare legs, illuminated by the soft lamplight flooding the room and peppered with goose bumps, though the heat of the room, coupled with the pain threading through his limbs, had a thin sheen of sweat forming on his top lip.

"Tea?" Her voice was low, dangerous and biting, tinged with a sincere anger that she rarely exposed.

Realising he had been staring at the shadows cast across her pale legs, he forced his eyes to focus on the wall just over her right shoulder, rather than at the darkness flooding her green eyes. She took an impulsive step towards him before continuing.

"You discharged yourself, drove over here with god-knows how many painkillers in your system, not to mention a busted shoulder and _three _cracked ribs, for tea?"

Her tone was far from incredulous; they knew each other far too well by now for that, and yet there was something creeping into her tone that sounded far too sincere for either of them to tackle.

Jane had long since learnt that their arguments, their honest arguments, where words and half-acknowledged emotions were thrown at each other instead of office equipment, always began when that unrelenting anger began to bleed into the edges of her soft voice. He could tell from the determination of her green eyes that no amount of staplers or punches hurled in his direction could set this right; that for once she was feeling reckless and indulgent of her fettered anger.

He also knew all too well that the real danger came in the moments that followed that first chink in her armour, that first tiny glimpse into what she was _really _thinking, as they had all those months ago in a dark cellar where the dust lined his throat and stifled his voice, on the night that he had saved her. She took another step towards him, the mesmerizing little crease between her eyebrows furrowing as he remained silent, his gaze unwavering despite the tremors she saw grip at his muscles. Another four steps and she would be in front of him, five to press herself against him, yet all the while he fought the urge to turn and flee the suffocating familiarity of her apartment.

In that moment, they found themselves suspended in that in-between space, between his words and the tentative steps she stole towards him, between his unbuttoned vest and her too-short jersey, where they threatened to overstep the lines that they had carefully, purposefully drawn and redrawn between them.

"They're not cracked, Lisbon. _Bruised._"

The teasing in his voice was far from the warm insistence Lisbon associated with her consultant; tonight everything felt forced, as if he was waiting for the inevitable fallout and yet, at the same time, trying with all his might to fend it off. It would have been so easy in that moment to let it go, to throw a raised eyebrow and frown his way before sauntering into the kitchen to make him a cup of tea and order Thai.

"_Hmm," she would say, "it's that death-trap of a car you insist on driving that concerns me more." He would smile at that, muttering something about it being a classic, about how ridiculous it was that she should drive that gas-guzzling monster she called a car when she could barely reach the pedals. She would ignore him, busying herself with finding the take-out menu with the little exclamation marks he had carefully pencilled next to his favourites, despite the fact that they always ordered the same. He would flick through the channels, no doubt settling on some old movie that she 'just had' to see while she added the truly boiling water to his tea, milk always first, stirred once, twice, three times and waited for the smell of camomile to warm the cold air of her small kitchen._

Tonight, her stillness threw him off balance, her only movement a small shake of her head that caused a loose strand of hair, dampened from the shower and slowly curling in the humidity of the room, to fall into her face. He waited a beat, waited for the sarcasm, the half-veiled frustration, for the raised eyebrow that was so uniquely _her_. He waited for that tiny tell-tale sign of normality that now seemed a million miles away from her too-warm apartment, her too-short jersey and that look on her face.

He would later recognise the clenching in his stomach as disappointment when all he was met with was a pair of large, doleful eyes shrouded in that far-off look that he knew he so often wore himself. In moments like these, where the tenuous links between them seemed so utterly exposed that it was laughable, Patrick Jane knew that nothing he could say could diffuse the crackle of tension in the room. And so, for once, he said nothing and prayed that the next words out of her mouth would be _bergamot or Earl Grey._

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><p>She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.<p>

Not that the sight of her consultant, pallid, shaking, in the middle of her living room was in anyway humorous. If anything, seeing each wave of pain roll across his features had her heart in her throat, her pulse racing and her hands desperately wanting to rub gentle circles across his back, just as she had done with her brothers so long ago. And yet she fought her compassion, smothered it with a blanket of anger and...what? Disappointment? Fear? She realised that it was a cocktail of both, swirling in her stomach, dampening her physical need to comfort him. Because the whole situation was ridiculous. He shouldn't even be here. He should be in the hospital, where she had left him three hours earlier with a lingering look and an unwavering promise to be back in the morning.

She watched him wearily, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, knowing that she was as translucent as ever to the man in front of her. Jane wasn't looking at her though, not really, his eyes unfocused as if he was looking right through and beyond her into the plasterboard and brick of the wall. Yet regardless of the fact that he could barely stand, let alone attempt to read her in his current state, a slow wave of realisation washed over her at how vulnerable she must look; hair damp, barely dressed, mouth twisted into a downturned frown of equal parts frustration and sympathy. Her anger flared again, albeit tempered with concern, as she watched Jane close his eyes and gulp down another shaky breath of air.

She couldn't yet bring herself to speak, despite the fact that right now, something had to give and judging by Patrick Jane's shaking fingertips and glazed-blue gaze, it would be his legs if she didn't say something soon. She watched, barely moving, as he took a few more breaths and began to speak, his eyes flooded with a sudden wave of blue clarity.

"Quit worrying woman. A cup of tea and I'll be fine. Right as rain. Fit as a..."

"Jane..." She silenced him momentarily with a quick wave of her palm, a small part of her wondering just how he had managed to produce a coherent sentence when the mere effort of speech had his throat visibly constricting in a desperate attempt at keeping his voice even.

"I'm _fine_," he countered. The nausea clawing at the back of his throat begged to differ.

She spoke without missing a beat, and in any other situation the sparring would have been a harmless part of the banter that filled their days and the ears of their long-suffering colleagues. But, as always, it was her eyes that gave her away, eyes that were now trained on him, narrowed with her trademark accusation.

"You can barely see straight."

He would have opted for a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders to reinforce the nonchalance he knew would have her fighting the urge to punch him square in the face, and yet the hot pain lancing through his collarbone meant he settled for a brusque _Meh _thrown in her direction.

She paused, eyes tearing away from his and focusing instead on the floor, small hands wringing nervously against the faded material of her jersey. Jane watched as her muscles tensed, brimming with a nervous energy that had her torn between holding her ground and fleeing the feel of his eyes on her. As soon as her fingers stilled, he knew her mind was made up. Her chest rose steadily as she sucked in another breath, body tensed, braced, as if ready to plunge headlong into icy waters, and in that moment, he didn't feel ready for what she was about to say.

"You were hit by a car," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

"A small car." He could feel the floodgates threatening to open.

"It still counts."

"Counts for what? Besides, everything was fine in the end, Lisbon. We caught the bad guy didn't we?"

Her frown deepened, a sadness creeping into her eyes that he couldn't have foreseen. It looked like she was determined to get her hair wet.

"But what if it hadn't been."

He could almost hear the crashing of the waves, although that could have been the residual noises of a concussion pounding against his eardrums. The throbbing in his temples worsened, the mild panic he felt at his words pumping his blood just that fraction faster. He couldn't do this, not tonight, not when the last thing he needed was to see how his 'accident' (as it had been almost-affectionately termed by the team) had the tenacious woman before him avoiding his gaze. He decided to play dumb, in the desperate hope that she would leave it alone, at least for tonight.

"Sorry?"

"You heard me."

He let out a ragged sigh, his good hand raking through already dishevelled curls; a nervous habit he'd never been able to shake. He should have known better than to expect her to back down without a fight. Her green eyes were levelled against his now, and she seemed much surer than she had only moments ago, more determined. She was teeming with it; a frustrating, endearing and, at times, infectious determination that had kept him grounded over the last few years. He hated what he had to say next.

"I don't see what that has to do with anything Lisbon."

She flinched slightly, almost imperceptibly, at the coldness that bled into his words. She had seen that look in his eyes before, the unwavering steel-gray that mirrored the determination infused in her own.

And all at once, it didn't seem worth it. Her acceptance, for she would never call it defeat, of the inevitability of his denial, of his refusal to take that step towards her when it really counted, of him even showing up tonight, came charging at her full-force. Her next words were steady calculated, although she could have winced at the desperation that caught in her throat.

"Right. Forget I spoke. Tea?"

"Lisbon." His voice was almost pleading, and yet she found it surprisingly easy to ignore.

"Jane."

Another sigh, husky, resigned.

"Milk in first."

Silence. As if she, of all people, would forget how to make his tea.

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><p><strong>Preview:<strong>

_"Look, Lisbon, if this is about me coming over, I'm sorry. But you should have tasted the stuff they tried to make me drink in there. Bitter...my guess is chloroform. Probably what's keeping half the people in there."_


	2. Downpour

Title: Storm in a Teacup

Summary: He wasn't entirely sure why he was propped in the doorway of her apartment when he should be in the hospital. Then again, he'd always been a glutton for punishment, especially when it came to them.

Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist, although I am the proud owner of a shiny new Kindle - a birthday present from the boy.

A/N: First off, apologies for the ridiculous delay in getting this chapter finished and posted. It's been half finished for weeks now, and yet a combination of moving back home and losing my inspiration somewhere between here and France means I'm only just updating. Much more importantly, a massive THANKYOU to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter: the response I got was overwhelming and so encouraging. Love for you all!

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><p><span>Chapter 2: Downpour<span>

Milk, chilled. Tea, English Breakfast. Water, truly boiling. Stir once, twice...

There was something calming about making his tea. The sound of the little cup rattling against the edges of the saucer, the hot tendrils of steam ghosting across her cheeks, the tinny melody of the spoon catching the rim of the teacup with each pass.

She only really drank tea when Jane was here, and more often than not he would be hovering over her shoulder, her helicopter consultant, chattering away about a recent case, or flamboyantly defending his reasons for insisting that tea should never be tainted by adding, of all things, sugar. Tonight, only the sound of the tiny spoon disturbed the quiet. A quiet that was testament to the simple fact that she was making tea only for Jane.

It was a small, insignificant realisation at first, and yet the inkblot of a thought began to unfurl and bleed into the peripheries of her vision, until everything seemed touched by Patrick Jane, imbued with the events that had brought his shuffling footsteps to her front door. The soft sounds that rippled through the quiet of the kitchen were suddenly distorted, warped into the rattling of a hospital gurney, the ghost of a warm, shuddering breath against her cheek and the haphazard beat of a heart monitor.

Pressing her back hard against the refrigerator door, Lisbon drew a shuddering breath and longed for the coolness of the room to diffuse into her skin and smother the last waves of adrenaline crashing through her system. Through the silence came the low hum of a headache, beginning to thread its way through the taut muscles of her neck and shoulders, and she pressed herself harder against the cold surface until she felt she might be able to fall right through and hide from him, wedged on a tiny shelf between the open jars and half-eaten vegetables. A half-hearted laugh left her parted lips along with a shake of her head, a sudden veil of tiredness descending over her limbs.

She let her eyelids flutter and close for an instant, only to be assaulted by a barrage of images, fleeting yet vivid, each infused with more colour than seemed real, a cacophony of deafening noise pressing against her temples.

The sickening thud of a body against concrete. The scream of distant sirens. The ragged breathing of the man at her feet.

Blood red against sky blue against pale skin.

She inhaled sharply, eyes snapping open to find him hovering in the doorway, yet the image of him only days earlier was burned into her retinas as she blinked once, twice, resolutely, to rid herself of the image. In a moment she was back, straightening herself as she levelled her gaze against his. Against dark eyes that lingered on her from beneath heavy-hooded lids, that lingered for a second too long before she could tear herself away.

Frustrated by his sudden intrusion, Teresa whirled around, busying herself with the tea as she fought the urge to crush the dainty cup into a thousand tiny flecks of turquoise sand that would trickle through her fingers and spill onto her bare feet. She took the cooling metal of the spoon in her hand once more, stirring the last dregs of panic into the depths of his tea. Yet still she was restless, buzzing with pent-up energy, with frustration and anger, with something that felt unnervingly like relief. She paused to sweep her hair clumsily into a ponytail, only to take it down almost instantly, instead dragging her fingers fiercely through the dark curls in an attempt to clear her head.

On the edge of her awareness, she heard Jane noisily take a seat, impatient fingers drumming against the tabletop. She waited to steal a glance over her shoulder, eyes narrowed, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, only to find him fumbling with the child-proof container of painkillers, the tiny white pills rattling in protest as his fingers trembled with the effort.

Swallowing the sickly taste of compassion, she decisively whisked his teacup over to the table, gently setting the little cup within his reach. Without a word, tentative hands moved to cover and still his own, and she ignored the flinch of surprise that momentarily paralyzed his frenetic movements. Removing the lid with ease, she pressed two pills into his upturned palm, cool fingertips ghosting along his.

And, for the briefest of moments, Teresa could have sworn that his wide, full eyes met hers in silent gratitude before drifting shut, shaking hands brought to his lips as he swallowed hard. She watched, mesmerized, as he slowly drew a heaving breath deep into his chest, and the familiar mask of complacency that she knew so well slid neatly into place over his features. And just for a second, he looked as if it was any another night.

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><p>Jane had struggled to keep track of the minutes that had passed since Lisbon had appeared before him, her small hands moving deftly against his own. She had retreated almost at once, and had since been pressed firmly against the countertop opposite him, casting concerned glances his way whenever she thought he was looking away.<p>

Feeling the warm haze of pain lift from his vision, the latest dose of painkillers drenching his aching bones, he contemplated her silently as she stared into the depths of her scolding tea, tiny fingertips reddened as they clung to the blue china. The cup was identical to the one resting at his elbow on her kitchen table, and each would find a twin resting in the dark cupboard at CBI headquarters. He allowed a small smile to quirk at the corner of his lips as the memory of that day crept to the forefront of his mind.

_Their chemistry had been off that day. Usually they seemed to know instinctively where the other was standing, were able to finish each other's sentences as he leant nonchalantly in the doorway of her office. It was a strange kind of compatibility that they one day found themselves neatly slotted into, yet neither commented, each silently content that they had finally reached a point of harmony, which seemed in recent weeks to weather even the toughest cases. But today had been a complete shambles, and if Rigsby's black eye and the raised voices resonating from Minelli's office weren't enough to go on, then the furrow between a certain dark-haired agent's eyebrows was all he needed to confirm that she was feeling the strain. _

_It had happened all too quickly, and Jane felt almost wrong-footed that he hadn't seen it coming. She was mid-rant, waging a violent battle against the temperamental coffee maker, when he had sidled up alongside her, cup in hand, to offer his assistance with the unruly appliance. At that moment, her frustration apparently peaked (although whether that was due to the stack of complaints seemingly materialising on her desk after the day's events or caffeine deprivation, he still wasn't sure) and she had whirled around, hands raised in exasperation, any outburst silenced by the sound of china crashing to the ground. In the moments that had followed, she hid her face behind waves of dark hair while collecting the shards one by one, as if ready to put the cup back together for him. A gentle hand on her shoulder had roused her from her frantic movements and, with a barely perceptible nod of his blonde curls, she scurried away to her office where, unbeknownst to the team, her paperwork was momentarily forgotten in a flurry of pacing and self-chastisement._

_All memory of the event had been forgotten by the next morning, or so Jane had thought, until he had opened the cupboard to find two teacups nestled together and half-hidden behind one of the wooden joists, as if engaging in a half-hearted game of hide and seek. In the tumultuous weeks and months that followed, the consultant had often found himself on the doorstep of a certain senior agent, invited in without question and a blue teacup placed gently into his hands with only a flash of recognition in her green gaze by way of explanation. They had continued in this way until the ostentatious little cups acquired a meaning all of their own, albeit unspoken, as they were filled, refilled and clutched close to weary bodies late into the night._

The rattle of her teacup snatched him from the memory and he dared to steal a glance at the brunette across the empty expanse of the kitchen between them. Sleeves pulled down to her knuckles, cup clutched close to her chest, Teresa Lisbon was a picture of defensiveness. He could practically feel it radiating from her in waves. In another lifetime, he would gently take the cup from her hands, setting it down firmly on the countertop before wrapping her into a tight embrace of apology and reassurance. His mind hummed with unspoken words of apology, of consolation, of misdirection and harsh truths, yet his mouth remained desert-dry and empty.

A sudden swell of frustration lurched in his chest as he realised that, once again, he would have to be the one to make the first move. Already he had come to her, sought out her alone while his better judgement stubbornly argued that he would be much better off elsewhere; in his empty Sacramento apartment, in the damp CBI attic, or settled deep into the cushions of his beloved couch. Not that she could have turned him away. And yet here he was, desperate and unmoving at her kitchen table, while she stood, stock-still, ridiculously silent as her wide eyes refused to lift from the steaming surface of her scolding hot tea. He couldn't be sure if the way he spoke to her next was from the impatience her silence had bred, or from the fear that if he didn't say something soon, the only sound to leave his mouth would be the catching of a pained groan in his throat.

"Look if this is about me coming over, I'm sorry Lisbon. But you should have tasted the stuff they tried to make me drink in there. Bitter...my guess is chloroform. Probably what's keeping half the people in there."

All brightness and honesty, he added a sheepish smile and eye-roll for good measure. Not that he ever expected her to buy it. Most of the time, he was well aware that Lisbon saw through a good proportion of his lies, the little ones that slipped in from time to time, and yet he smothered that voice in the back of his head that questioned just how and when she had become so good at reading him. No, it wasn't her awareness that mattered at all because, despite the unyielding optimism of Saint Teresa, she didn't always strive to change his mind. There were moments, few and far between yet moments that were very much _there_, when he saw the brief flicker of apprehension in her eyes before her own inner voice nudged her in the direction of complicity.

Tonight her eyes were ablaze with something all the more unsettling.

Another sigh, as her dark eyes lifted from her cup but not to meet his, instead settling on the table top just inches from his clasped hands. He watched her closely as she scrutinized them, her brow furrowing ever so slightly, mouth downturned, and saw a myriad of emotions flicker across her gaze, unsteady and fleeting, like the juddering black and white movies he watched as a child. Slowly, he moved his hands, palms now flat against the tabletop, and levelled his gaze against hers. The movement seemed to rouse her from the internal conflict that shone in her eyes and she moved abruptly, bringing her cup down onto the countertop with more force than necessary before turning back to face him.

It was then that he noticed that she was trembling, her whole body tensed in readiness, as her slender fingers began to nervously toy with the loose hem of her oversized shirt once more. He was up in an instant, ribs protesting painfully as he moved tentatively, cat-like, towards her, his arms outstretched slightly as if to take her tiny hands in his own. But he stopped just short of her as she ducked her head, dark hair tumbling about her face, shielding her from him.

He began firmly, a drug-fuelled sense of clarity coursing through his veins, and yet still he failed to keep his concern from bleeding into the edges of his voice.

"Lisbon...Teresa. Will you at least talk to me, tell me what's wrong? You're shaking..."

Another shuddering breath, though it sounded like laughter, almost cruel. Anger was his first guess, and yet the small woman before him was becoming increasingly unreadable as he watched her shrink momentarily from the room, folding in on herself. It was like a buffer, the calm before the storm and he knew, as soon as her hands fell to her sides and her darkened gaze met his, that he was tiptoeing along the brink of her patience. One wrong word and he would tumble right over the edge.

"You have no idea do you?"

"Quite the contrary actually, I have plenty of ideas my dear, but only the more orthodox ones get run by you." He tried another smile, but it came off as more of a grimace as a fresh lance of pain seared through his shoulder.

"Just don't," she warned, her voice dangerously low yet unwavering. "Don't try to pass this off as another of your little schemes that went awry. This is serious."

It was frightening just how quickly the small woman in front of him had shifted from shy defensiveness to barely-contained anger, and he could feel her muscles winding tighter and tighter in frustration. That tone was there again, inky black bleeding into her voice as she braved a step towards him, her downturned frown fixed more firmly than ever. In that moment, she was almost predatory, daring him to take the bait while she teetered on the verge of losing her self-imposed control.

If anything, it made him angry. Angry that they had let things get this far out of hand, that he had been idiotic enough to assume that she would welcome him in, battered and bruised with open arms, that she couldn't just offer him a cup of tea, or better yet, throw him out into the cold, because right now, the desperation creeping over him had him feeling reckless.

He knew deep down, they _both_ knew perfectly well, that working themselves into such a frenzy was ultimately pointless; they'd crossed this bridge enough times to know that nothing ever changed. He went on in his obsessive quest for redemption, she internalised to the point of combustion, the tension building until they thought they might never say a damned word to each other. And then something small, imperceptible would shift; a cup of tea would materialise next to his couch or an origami frog would startle a smile from her, and all the electric tension would seemingly dissipate, cast into forgotten corners of the bullpen, only to creep back upon them little by little in the following weeks.

Yet tonight, something told him that the bridge was finally ready to be burned, doused in the frustration and fear of the last forty eight hours.

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><p><strong>Preview:<strong>

_"What do you want Lisbon, an apology? Fine, okay then, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I disobeyed you and got out of the SUV, although let's be fair, we've been down this road before and yet you always seem surprised when everything doesn't quite go to plan."_


	3. Deluge

Title: Storm in a Teacup

Summary: He wasn't entirely sure why he was propped in the doorway of her apartment when he should be in the hospital. Then again, he'd always been a glutton for punishment, especially when it came to them.

Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

A/N: I'm back, and raring to go. This story just won't let me go, and I've relished getting back into writing it. It seems that my inspiration strikes when I'm at my busiest, but rest assured I'll find a way to keep writing between lectures, essays and PHD decision-making. Thankyou for sticking with me, and thankyou for taking the time to read this.  
>Happy 100 to everyone and a Happy Season 5 Premiere to UK viewers :)<p>

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><p><span>Chapter 3: Deluge<span>

Her tea had gone cold. The warmth of the thin china against her lips no more than a memory, a half-remembered graze of stubble across her skin. Fingertips that had ached for the warmth of his touch were instead clenched tightly around her cup, deadened and white. Seconds ground by and yet the time that passed between them was not counted and collected by the ticking of her kitchen clock, but measured in loss by the warmth that seeped from her cup into the cool static of the room. She knew this feeling well; the familiar ache in her limbs, breath suspended high in her chest.

Stalemate.

The admission seized her by the throat, and with it, frustration began its spider-legged ascent through her veins as the silence wore on, heavy and cloying. She swallowed down the words clattering against her teeth. The tension began to snake through her limbs, faintly at first, before the low thrumming started in her ears, rhythmic and heaving. And all at once she was angry again, so goddamn angry that she wanted to take the smooth of his shirt into her tightly balled fists and shake a sound from him, dig her fingernails through the fabric and smatter his skin in red-raw crescent moons, if only for him to _feel_ her frustration, her defeat, her...

"Lisbon."

The silence splintered at the roughness of his voice, pain skittering around the edges of each of his carefully formed syllables.

"Jane."

Hers was smoother, yet no less insistent, shot through with the exasperation and exhaustion she felt pooling at the base of her skull. His exasperated sigh, accompanied with that tell-tale raking of his already-dishevelled hair had her shoulders set in determination.

"What do you want Lisbon, an apology? Fine, okay then, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I disobeyed you and got out of the SUV, although let's be fair, we've been down this road before and yet you always seem surprised when all doesn't go quite to plan."

* * *

><p>"<em>So what's the plan Boss?"<em>

_Lisbon squinted against the unrelenting midday sun, silently cursing the cocoon of black Kevlar pulled tight against her frame as she drank in every detail of the decaying neighbourhood. She clawed hopelessly at the suffocating vest one last time, before turning her attention to the team; wide eyed, jaws set with determination. She recognised their suspense in her own taught muscles, felt the same rush in the quivering of her lungs, felt the same humming adrenaline at the danger skirting at the edges of their peripheries._

"_Cho, Rigs, you take the front. Van Pelt with me through the back. Modesto PD are providing backup, but we all know they're just trying to muscle in. So, let's keep it simple. Smash and grab. We go in, we get Vickers and we get the hell out of there. Understood?" _

_Any reply that came was interrupted by the pointed finger and feigned confusion of one Patrick Jane._

"_And what about me?"_

"_What about you? You know the drill, stay in the car."_

_She was all nonchalance and authority, but in the way she tossed the remark distractedly over her shoulder, and the faltering of her hands against the cool steel of her Glock, Jane saw his opportunity._

"_But Lisbooon," he drawled, voice wrought with exasperation, "it's so hot. And the seats get all sticky. Not to mention that the smell of Rigsby's fries is still trapped in there." He caught the glimpse of a smile ghost across her lips as she met Cho's gaze, a trace of warmth that she fought and failed to keep from her words._

"_Then roll down the window." Her arched eyebrow came as a challenge, the slightest drop of her hip and width of her gait the telltale signs of her insistence. _

"_But..."_

"_You heard me, Jane. Don't make me cuff you or so help me you'll be in there all day with only the dregs of Rigsby's coke to sip on."_

_Hands held in mock surrender, Jane's chuckle was drowned out by the sound of a ruffled Rigsby choking on his straw, yet somewhere between Cho offering a pitying round of slaps to his friend's back, and Van Pelt frantically searching her vest pockets for the van keys, he managed to throw an impressive glare in the direction of the team's flushed, yet rather smug- looking, senior agent._

* * *

><p>She remembered, with painful clarity, the glint in his eyes and the lopsided smirk that betrayed his relish for the startling domesticity of their confrontations. Tonight, his face was that of a different man; his jaw tightly clenched, crayon-red lips pulled into a thin grimace, while the intensity of his gaze was tinged with a darkness absent from his earlier ire. A hint of something altogether more spiteful.<p>

"You know that's not what this is about," she managed to growl, ignoring the hurt that his apparent ignorance plunged into her chest.

"Isn't it?" She sensed he was on the verge of raising his voice, his words tinged with condescension and a desperate, disbelieving laughter.

But she saw the signs, just as he did. Saw the deadness in his eyes, the challenge in the set of his battered body. She saw the act, and for once, found she couldn't stomach it. It made her sick.

"Just don't. Don't think that this is something that'll just go away because it won't, not this time."

"This time? Just this once? We both know that isn't really your style, is it." His words dripped with provocation, and she suddenly understood what it was to be on the other side of the interrogation room, staring back into the steel-blue darkness.

"Don't you dare Jane. This is different," she growled, daring to take a step toward her prowling consultant, his frenetic pacing betraying the pent-up frustration that threatened to rip through his heaving ribcage.

"Is it, _Lisbon?_ Because frankly, this routine is getting a little old."

"Jane, you rarely take notice of my orders, so why should I expect an apology from you for just being yourself. You've got yourself into trouble before, and you'll probably do it again. But next time, do me a favour, and don't get yourself run over."

"Oh, do _you_ a favour? Who is it that got hit by the car, Lisbon? Remind me. Who spent the last two days stuck in a hospital ward. Who had to blackmail Rigsby into dropping me off a damned suit, just so I could leave."

"And who watched them cut you out of the last one?"

_A hollow shout. Primal. Disembodied. Ripped from his throat as if it was never his to begin with. A shout that dug its claws into that deepest fear, kept under lock and chain, dragging it skyward, wrenching it into the blinding California sunshine. She was aware of her feet pounding against the baked earth, carrying her closer to him and yet all she heard, all she felt, was a wall of sound slamming into her skin: the scream of brakes, the shriek of grinding metal and the sickening thud of a body against the black heat of the road. Yet still she couldn't see him, even as the acrid stench of burnt rubber hit her lungs, forcing her to swallow a wave of nausea and the bile of raw adrenaline, blood pouring into every muscle, her ears ringing._

_Then she saw him. Still._

_Jane was never still, not even on his couch. He paced, he twitched, he fidgeted, hell, he even danced. Yet here, here was her consultant, sprawled rag-doll, skewed limbs bound in suffocating layers of pinstripe and seersucker. _

_Frozen. Still, save for the shuddering rise and fall of his chest._

The same stillness set in her consultant's limbs even now as her words hung in the air, aloft on the desperation that laced every syllable. His eyes darkened at her admission and he frantically searched her pale face for an explanation, a second meaning, a flash of regret; anything that would force her to take stumbling steps back to her side of the line.

He saw it as her gaze fell suddenly to the floor, arms wrapping instinctively about her small frame just that little tighter than before, fingernails gripping the rough fabric and digging into her skin that fraction deeper, as if she were braced for the flood of his retaliation. Her fear.

His throat constricted painfully against her raw confession and yet no words came, only the sound of his ragged breathing, his hot breath teasing goosebumps against her skin, enough to make her eyelashes flutter. _When had he gotten so close? _She could feel his gaze roving across her face, drinking her in, yet remained unflinching, allowing herself only to trace the criss-cross of his tattered shoelaces, their frayed edges at once too familiar.

Brown shoes. Red blood.

_The sound of his ragged breathing now the hollow rattle of the man at her feet, his heaving chest fighting against the featherlight weight of her palms._

White shirt. Red blood.

_A steady trickle of red rain, mesmerizing against the collar of his shirt, carving a crimson stream from his temple down the hollow of his throat._

Blue eyes. Red blood.

Blue eyes. Red blood. Blue eyes. Red blood. Red. Red. Red...

"Lisbon."

His hands seized her roughly by the arms, bruising in their intensity. She felt his grip right down to the bone as it rooted her to the spot, anchoring her to him, and yet her eyes slid to the floor, ashamed, as she vaguely realized that her hands were shaking. Which meant that Jane had realized too. Which explained the desperation she felt radiating from him in drowning waves, pressing against her ribs, forcing the air from her aching lungs. Swallowing hard against the ebb of panic lodged in her throat, she forced herself to take a tentative step back, away from the heat of his feverish skin, from the scent of bergamot and hospital hand sanitizer that clung to the fibres of his blessedly pristine shirt.

Her skin was alight with the humiliation of it all; her weakness when she should be unwavering, her relief when her blood should be coursing with rage, her fear. The fear that she had let slip through the cracks of her weariness and panic, when it should be kept under lock and key, fettered to the darkest recesses of her heart, smothered and stolen away from the light of day. His darkened gaze told her that he had seen it too, seen its sickening intensity with a clarity that had his eyes wide and empty, arms hanging helplessly by his sides. Nimble fingers twitched against his clammy palms in a gesture of cold calculation and desperate indecision.

_Fight or flight_, she realized, only a moment too late.

"I should go. I shouldn't have come."

His words were almost whispered, the gravity of his voice a low hum against the high-pitched scream of the silence enveloping them. The intimacy of the situation crashed down around her; the warm smell of his sweat pressing her back against the wall, the shuddering of his exhale caressing the tendrils of her drying hair. Momentarily, she gave way to the plea in his hooded gaze, and reached out to brush her hand along the soft creases of his shirt.

"Jane. Wait, I..."

All she felt was the cool air kissing her fingertips.

"Sorry to have inconvenienced you Lisbon."

And with that he was gone, arm clutched awkwardly to his chest, the faint taste of aftershave in the air and the wrenching disappointment in her gut the only signs that he was ever there to begin with. Biting back a sob, she fought the urge to lash out at the wall behind her, and instead relished in the roughness of the plaster that nipped at the rivets of her spine, holding her crumpled form against the silence of the empty kitchen. Her tea had gone cold.

* * *

><p><strong>Preview<strong>**:**

_He felt himself stagger, his knees beginning to buckle under the strain, as his hands clutched for something to anchor him to the room. To her. The only tangible sensation was that of a deft pair of hands dragging him from the depths and guiding him towards the couch._


End file.
